


scandalum magnum flāvī

by goldfishtobleroneandamitie



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Gen, Jehan and Joly interaction what is this witchery, Legally Blonde AU, M/M, let's pick and choose the fanons that work for us, sassy gay Grantaire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishtobleroneandamitie/pseuds/goldfishtobleroneandamitie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Legally Blonde AU that nobody wanted (except Rachel, but...)</p>
<p>When Jehan gets dumped by his long-term boyfriend, he follows him to Harvard Law to get him back; and ends up with more than he'd bargained for. Will feature the Bend and Snap, culinary arts major Bahorel, and a more-relatable-than-usual Warner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scandalum magnum flāvī

**Author's Note:**

  * For [got_spunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/got_spunk/gifts).



“Grantaire, get out of bed _right now_ or I swear to God I’ll end you.”

“Joly, I drank six gravediggers last night. Leave me alone to die.”

“Well, that’s your own fault, isn’t it?” The bed squeaks as a hundred and sixty pounds of perpetually nervous biology student lands on it. “ _Get up,_ or I’ll use the baby thermometer on you.”

"Empty threat, Joly. I'm gay, remember?" Grantaire rolls over, burying his face further into the pillow he's currently snuggling.

Joly sputters at that. "I...that's not...eurgh, you're  _impossible,"_  he moans, but his face suddenly brightens with mischief. "Grantaire, Jehan's getting engaged today. He'll be heartbroken if you don't at least sign the card. You don't want Jehan upset, do you? I've gotten  _everybody_ else...well, except Bahorel..." 

"Oh, you--" growls Grantaire, "You don't pull punches, do you?" 

"...and an upset Jehan is a Jehan rather less inclined to make hangover sugar cookies..."

" _All right,_ I'm up, I'm up!"

Satisfied, Joly bounds off the small bed. "Thank you. Now, have you seen Jehan today?"

"Joly, I was sleeping off a--"

"Not you," comes the reply. Grantaire finally levers himself out of bed and heads for the tiny bathroom, finally catching sight of the elephant in the room. 

Actually, it's only Bahorel--if anything about Bahorel can be used in conjunction with "only". The giant is leaning against the door, looking like an especially muscular Jason Momoa, deceptively quiet for such a large man. To look at him, you'd never guess that he's a culinary arts major (after a few false starts) whose greatest joy is icing tea roses on petit fours.

"I haven't, actually. He got away from me this morning, and he's not answering his phone."

"He never does, not when he's shopping. Disturbs the poetry of the moment, I think it is," Grantaire deadpans through the bathroom door, beginning to strip. 

"How did you lose him between--Grantaire, put those in the  _hamper,_ do you realize how much of a germ habitat those are--"

"Grantaire drank six gravediggers, Joly. I drank four." Bahorel rubs his forehead, coppery skin decidedly paler than usual. "So I'm not firing on all cylinders without the hangover cookies."

"Bahorel, you're a baker!"

"No, I'm a cook. And I  _know_ ," growls the bigger man. "I've been trying to replicate Jehan's recipe for  _months,_ and he says he's showed me everything, but he's holding out on me. I know it." He accepts the card Joly thrusts at him, barely blinking at the fluffy pink pen that accompanies it. "Why is one of the words on this whited out and glittered over?"

"Because it says to 'my best girlfriend'."

"Then why'd you buy it?"

"Because it screamed Jehan louder than Mrs. Weasley's Howler?"

"Good point." Bahorel eyes the card a bit askance, but scrawls a heartfelt--for him--message into one corner nonetheless. "It's going to be odd not calling him Jean Prouvaire, huh?"

"Amen," Grantaire responds, emerging from the shower in boxers and rubbing his hair dry. "Jean Combeferre doesn't ring nearly as well."

"Who's to say he'll change it?" Joly asks, tickling Langston, Jehan's ferret, under the chin. 

"You kidding?" snorts Bahorel. "Jehan loves the idea. He wants the whole bit--big white wedding, picket fence, two and a half kids adopted from Cambodia. He'll be Jean Combeferre as soon as he graduates."

"Speak it not! It is the word that the Knights of Ni cannot hear!"

"You don't know where Jehan is, do you, Langston?" Joly ignores Grantaire except to lob a clean shirt in his general direction. "Oh, wait--I know!" He tugs a phone out of one pocket and begins typing furiously. 

"Joly, his phone's off."

"No, he's just not answering it. Which means--I can find him. Ha! Old Valley Mall!"

Grantaire’s head pops through the neckline of the T-shirt, and he eyes Joly. "...do you have 'find my iPhone' on Jehan?"

"...maybe. Come on, let's go."

"Do you have 'find my iPhone' on me?"

"How do you think I find you in all those dives? And I hope you appreciate that, by the way; the peanuts alone--"

"Joly? Do you have me, too?"

"Bahorel, I plead the fifth--Grantaire, come on, we're going shopping."

* * *

 

“Sir? Why not try this? Latest from Milan, just got it in yesterday!” 

Jehan glances up from the ties he’s comparing to eye the associate. Tall, with a narrow, horsey face and small eyes. His gaze drifts down to the suit set she’s holding, and his eyes narrow.

It’s a two-piece, which just proves that she hasn’t taken stock of _anything_ he’s tried on this afternoon. Jehan has an affinity for vests—he’d been wearing one, along with a lavender tutu (he was drunk) when he’d met Combeferre at ‘Ferre’s first and his last frat party. But the lack of attention’s transgressed far past simple lack of observation, and Jehan has to fight a sardonic quirk of his lips.

She’s clearly clocked that he’s gay—how could she _not,_ given the flowers in his hair and his mint-green-striped Docs with lavender skinny jeans and one of Combeferre’s yellow button-ups—but hasn’t made the next jump to the stereotype of knowing clothes. But then, he is wearing mint-green-striped combat boots with lavender skinny jeans. (He can dress other people, but not himself. Speaking of, w _here is Joly with Grantaire?)_

Instead of tearing her apart—yet—however, he widens his eyes and lets his mouth fall half-open, perfectly fulfilling the shallow stereotype she’s already pegged him with.

“Ooh, is that a scallop stitch I see? On Dupioni silk?”

Her eyebrows crinkle, and he’s afraid he’s been too obvious when her face brightens as she smells a commission.

“Yes, of course! Only the best for an engagement! Congratulations, by the way!” Her voice is brittle in its cheerfulness, and—

_Oh, she did not._

“That’s funny,” he replies, words dripping poisonously sweet, “considering a scallop stitch doesn’t even _exist._ Also, that’s not silk; it’s wool blend. Besides, you wouldn’t use _Dupioni_ silk for an entire suit, unless you were a _yakuza_ slum lord or a pimp. And you didn’t just get this in.” He cocks his head, smiles like a shark, and goes in for the kill. “My boyfriend showed it to me in last fall’s _Vogue._ I told him not to buy it, because it wouldn’t show off his shoulders. And trust me—“ his eyes narrow, and the sweetness drops—“I’m not buying last year’s suit, even if it was woven from the tears of kittens and sewn by women that _aren’t_ in sweatshops, at this year’s price. Especially not to get engaged to the love of my life,” he finishes. He flicks her a dismissive glance, and turns back to the rack.

* * *

 

They find Jehan in Jimmy Au's, staring at a row of suit jackets and studiously ignoring a sputtering sales associate. His golden freckles stand out against his paler-than-usual skin, and he's twining the end of his braid nervously. He catches sight of them, and his face scrunches up.  

“Jehan, what did you do?”

"Oh, Joly, I don't know w _hat_  I'm going to do--none of these are  _right!"_ he wails, waving a hand at the small pile of suit, shirt, and tie combinations that have taken up residence on a nearby stool. 

“ _What did you do?_

He pouts. “Scared a saleslady. She tried to sell me something Combeferre would wear. From last year’s collection. I may be frilly, but I’m not _stupid.”_

“This is why you’re a Romantic, Jehan,” Joly muses, seating himself next to the pile of rejects. “Because that sweet, pink exterior hides adamantium claws.”

"Jehan, why are you buying a suit? You don't  _own_ a suit." Inquires Grantaire, collapsing next to Joly.

"I  _know,_ and Zach is taking me to a really nice restaurant and I can't exactly wear floral leggings, can I?"

"Jehan, Combeferre would love it if you wore floral leggings," Joly soothes.

" _He_ would, but tonight is special. I can't wear floral leggings to a proposal, Joly," comes the exasperated reply.

"Wait--" Grantaire's head pops up from its pillow. "That's what the card was for?"

"Grantaire, the card said 'Congratulations to you  _and your fiancé,"_ Joly hisses.

"If you think I'm sober enough to read right now, you're sadly mistaken. Speaking of, Jehan, the cookies--" He's ignored in favor of cooing over the card, and so, with a wince, speaks louder. "Jehan, t _he cookies--"_

"As soon as you help me pick out the perfect outfit."

"Wait--what? I am not being roped into this, Jean Prouvaire. I love you, but--" protests Grantaire, but Jehan's eyes are getting bigger and his lower lip is pushing out, and Grantaire knows that he's a lost cause.

"Grantaire, you're an artist. You know color. And I  _know_ you know suits. Please?" the poet pleads, making his eyes somehow even bigger and shoving out his lip another notch. 

Grantaire groans. "Hangover cookies first."

"Fine." The doe eyes acquire a shrewd look, one that makes Grantaire why Jehan's been dating the class valedictorian for two years. He may be a Creative Writing major and have a sense of fashion that runs more to florals than flannel, but he has a sharp wit and a sharper mind. “Then suits?”

“Then suits,” Grantaire replies, with a small smile.

He lets out a strangled noise when a Ziploc bag hits him in the chest. “You’ve been holding out on me? _Rude,_ Jean Prouvaire, _shockingly_ rude!” The last is said around a mouthful of crumbs.

Jehan’s eyes narrow. 

“Now help me get ready for my engagement.”  
  
After a challenging look from a the salesclerk—who seems offended by crumbs, but is distracted by a furious-looking supervisor—Grantaire allows himself a small, fond grin as he follows the excited poet deeper into the store.

* * *

 

“Joly?" 

“Hmm?” The pre-med student closes his book, resigning himself to a paucity of studying for the next few hours.

“Did you mean that? About the leggings?”

“Of course, Jehan.” He stands, taps on the fitting room door. Grantaire’s ostensibly off collecting belts, but considering how long he’s been gone, Joly suspects that the expedition might have been converted into a smoke break.

“You decent?”

There’s an affirmation in a funny voice, and Joly slides into the tiny room.

“What’s on your mind, little Byron?” He uses the nickname that Grantaire made up while very, _very_ intoxicated at freshman orientation, that Jehan professes to hate (“ _honestly, Grantaire, can’t I be Poe or Keats or someone who wasn’t an absolute dandy, at least?”)_ but puts a silly little smile on his face whenever he hears it.

No such luck now, though.

“I—I don’t know. What you said about the leggings."

“What about them? ‘Ferre thinks they’re cute.”

“I know, but—“ Jehan bites his lip. “They’re a little...out there. I mean, you know ‘Ferre—he wears solid-color button-downs and khakis, for goodness’s sake, he’d wear _Sperrys_ if I let him--“

“What’s your point, Jehan?” Joly asks, not unkindly. Jehan’s rambling is adorable, but it’s usually a little more directed than this. Unless it’s Jehan’s poetry; then, all bets are off.

“Do you think Combeferre and I are meant to last?”

Joly starts. “Jehan, you’re getting e _ngaged!”_

“I _think_ we are,” Jehan corrects. "He’s got the eyes. ‘Ferre may be hard to read, but his eyes are an open book. But—“ Pearly teeth sink harder into the poet’s lip nervously—“we’re so different, Jolllly,” rolling the ‘L’, “What if…what if he gets sick of me?”

“Jehan, can I tell you a story?” Joly returns, instead of answering

“I love stories, but—“

“You know Victurnien?”

“The cheerleader? _Everyone_ knows Victurnien.”

“Mmm. And Combeferre’s bisexual, right?”

“Yes…” Jehan wrinkles his nose. “What’s your _point,_ Joly?”

“She had a thing for Combeferre. Big-time.”

“ _What?”_ Jehan’s inner gossip comes out, and he leans forward. “No _way!”_

“She asked ‘Ferre out right before you did. Combeferre said no, because he was waiting on someone else. He was waiting for _you,_ knucklehead.”

A small smile blooms on Jehan’s face, a satisfied one, with a touch of possessiveness. “He was waiting on _me.”_

“Trust me, little Byron,” smiles Joly, “I think someone a little out there might be exactly what Combeferre needs.”

Jehan cocks his head and sends a grateful look Joly’s way. “Thanks, Joly.”

“Anytime, knucklehead.”

A knock resounds on the door. “Jehan? Got some more ties for ya.”

“I thought you were going for belts, R?” Joly calls, without moving.

“Shit. Be back. Try these anyway. Also, the saleslady’s still glaring, so Joly…you might want to vacate.”

Jehan catches the strips of silk, and Joly, without moving, re-opens his textbook.

* * *

 

“No, no, not that color, Jehan. It looks awful with your complexion. 

“But—“  
  
“Jehan, you’re a blond—“  
  
 _“Strawberry blond—“_  
  
“Blond, and therefore that shade of pink really doesn’t do it for you.”  
  
“But—“  
  
Grantaire blows a long breath out through his nose. “Do you want my help, or not?” By this point, the pile of rejects has grown to mountainous proportions, its components a compilation of Jehan’s predilection for bright colors and Grantaire’s good taste.   
  
Jehan deflates. “No.”  
  
“Then try this on.”  
  
Joly buries himself in his MCAT study guide, fighting down giggles. Jehan disappears back into the fitting room, and Grantaire collapses next to Joly. “If he doesn’t like that, I’ll eat my flask,” he mutters, pulling it from an inside pocket of his jacket.   
  
“Mmm. Gimme.”

Raising his eyebrows, Grantaire obeys. “No lectures about dying of E. coli?”  
  
“I’m a hypochondriac, not a germaphobe. There’s a difference.” Joly takes a sip, barely wincing at the taste. “And trust me, this isn’t the sort of thing you do sober.”

Grantaire shrugs and reclaims the flask, stowing it back in his jacket pocket.   
  
“Grantaire, what do you think?” Jehan pokes his head out the door, hair falling in his face as he fiddles with something Joly can’t see.

“Come out and show me.”

The door creaks open, and Joly’s eyes are involuntarily dragged from the text.

Because Jehan looks _amazing._ Grantaire’s put him in a light gray suit, and found a shirt in a pale pink that somehow _doesn’t_ clash fantastically with his reddish-blond hair. There’s a waistcoat in a similar pearly gray, and—finally—a tie in a shade of bolder, bubble-gum pink.

Joly feels the highlighter slide from his fingers. Jehan looks gorgeous—a far cry from his usual self, but gorgeous nonetheless.

Grantaire only nods towards the mirror. “See for yourself.”  
  
Jehan, blushing, does—and gasps. “Oh, R, thank you!”

Grantaire smiles, disarming and rare, and murmurs, “I think you’re ready to get engaged, love.”

Jehan’s excited face lights up the entire room, and he launches himself onto the couch.   
  
“ThankyouthankyoubothsomuchthankyouTHANKYOUIloveyouguys!”

“And we love you, little Byron,” Grantaire laughs. “Now, up, or you’ll muss your suit!”

Jehan leans back up on his knees and kisses Grantaire full on the mouth, then stretches to land one on Joly’s cheek. The biology student accepts it happily, and Jehan wiggles between them, giggling.

“You guys are the best. Friends. Ever.”

“I know,” says Joly. “I’ve been telling you that for four years—but you’re getting highlighter on my pants!”

Jehan jumps up with a shriek, and runs back into the fitting room.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, God. I...I'm sorry, everyone. 
> 
> (Come talk to me at goldfishtobleroneandamitie.tumblr.com, to tell me to sit in the corner and think about what I've done, or for anything, really.)
> 
> Thanks to the lovely got_spunk for her beta work and kicking this into gear, but also a glare for dragging me onto her AU crazy train. (Go read it! Quality fic, right there. And ghostbusters!amis, so she's promised!)


End file.
